Poet Commentaries

Is the Fridge Light On

Is the Fridge Light On…(I know)

Bagged Joy

In the Cellophane Church
the killing floors are hidden
and feathers do not fly.
in a box.

I hunt joy.
I get the messiness
of the kill.

I roll in warm blood
prayers ignored.
The knife resonates
with skinned leather;
each scar a different note,
each callous a percussed glitch.
I turn over
and the song ends
with the last trapped breath
bubbling and gurgling out.

And yet I do not hate Joy,
how it impels and lures
till I am cornered.

I lie down submissive like;
exposing my throat
and under belly.
I let it tan me.
I am patient
as it counts
my scalped hairs
and makes cross references.
I scream as it peels back
my thick skin of lies
and presumptions.
I have trophies
of what once was me.

Most do not get it;
that knock on the door
the next morning
and there, on the threshold,
is Joy smiling
bringing balm.


Check In: I am here

One learns to read braille
interpreting old forgotten script
polished to indecipherable.
Read with piton and clevis;
punctuated with dislodged stone;
my boots scuff notes in margins.

I scrawl from page to page
reading from here to there
following the plot plot plot
of drips echoing off distant walls,
getting advice from wearied drafts,
tired air that collapses on my lips
and is sucked to my lungs
too exhausted
to recount from where it came

I squeeze through long sentences
with flourished exclamations,
grabbing hold of sloppy colons,
stalac tites and mites,
always on and on and never there,
finding only finger space rests.

The floor traveled on backside,
scratched dust coats my face.
Lips hydrate with water filtered
through generations of clay.
Water tracked in the dark
by triangulating radar pings
and by shifting crosshairs
from brow to cheek to tongue.

I burst out laughing.
As I quietly lap it in,
for from out of black vinyl
I hear a surreal sound
of whistle, hum and hymn.
My own recorded echoes
played back from the grooves.

Still laughing I move forward
and slide down into a blindness,
like a blank paper bookmark
released from a book’s spine
floating to the floor;
my finger sight of ceiling lost.
I grasp and claw for a hold
finding instead but baubles
of flint and chalk.

The swoosh of denim on shale
the trickle of water on granite
the drum roll of gravel
and my own echoed laughter;
all harmonize in the key of rest.

Little exploding flicks and flashes
among clouds of pink and yellow
as rolling bits of flint dance
with exploding sticks of chalk

Air rushes in full of stories
Naked undiluted water
streaks and splays everywhere
its mood soaking in.

The last bit of hectic,
the broken bits of brailled advice,
now but disassembled babble
catch up with me
and surround me at the bottom.

I stand up and dust off
in a large pavilion.
Filtered light plays off high walls,
shimmers in deep pools
and reflects glorious cave art
from those who came before.


Damn Straight

At the aquatorium
the squeak of skin on glass,
the echo of running feet,
childrens’ laughter,
and the hum of conversation

you can’t hear the fish

Damn straight it’s narrow
and metamorphic
bending around granite
drawing curves in dust.

Here some places are just
one sole on tiptoe wide
with fallen scree to port
and a chasm starboard

Old relics of man throughout
broken stairs and railings
heaved pavements
and geodetic markers

(on the sixth day God created
order eaters
chaos straighteners…
“that which is crooked
can’t be made straight”)

Strange how close some get.
Sects here and there
just outside the path.
Temples built adjacent
but not in,
pretending to be gates
to the straight and narrow.

Briefly they may walk along,
their white dorsals
a beauty to behold,
but I cannot hear them
and I know I can’t breath
in anger and lies.

I walk on
hedged around
from the dangers
of that order.
Chaos takes faith
but it is an atmosphere
I was made for.

Past the gate
lies a perfect mayhem

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